Okay, they’re girls. Now get over it

Can we move on from the chick thing or our inability to slot them into an obvious niche and just judge Warpaint on their great debut album?

Don't call me baby: Wayman, Kokal, Mozgawa and Lindberg (Mia Kirby)
Amid a scene that conjures up a modern-day Sodom, the Los Angeles band
Warpaint are not hard to spot. At the West Hollywood hotel where we meet,
weekend revellers are midway through a day-long pool party, the neanderthal
males parading their tats and pecs, the women in bikinis as insubstantial as
dental floss. Hovering by the security check-in, wearing thrift-store
apparel and smoking roll-ups, Theresa Wayman, Jenny Lee Lindberg and Stella
Mozgawa couldn’t look more alternative if they tried. Measured against their
current surroundings, then, they could be described as indie; as,
superficially, could the sounds they make. Yet, to judge by the shrill
emphasis of much of the press that has appeared about them to date, Warpaint
are LA music royalty, their celebrity friends — among them John Frusciante,
of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the late Heath Ledger — the chief
explanation for the hype surrounding the band.